wool--
it’s another wool day--it’s an
if I had those knit gloves
with the fingers cut out
my palms would be warm
sort of day.
But I never really understood
knittless fingers in gloves
for getting warm. Maybe it
started when some man
needed a smoke who knows
how long ago and so a genius
wife took the measure of him
and made gloves without covers
or maybe she gave up
the ghost early and he
rummaged through her knitting
bag on his way to her grave
and he was one of the men
to be seen folding
the pall and isn’t it
easier to do with skin bare
fingers even in this cold
so cold graves are started
with coal tools. Maybe it’s both.
Or none of those. Maybe
Or none of those. Maybe
it’s homelessness sitting
in his rocking chair sifting
his fingers through and through
his own bones and it’s lonely
as a chill any ghost
wears, and it’s thicker
than all the wool we’d know or care
to or ever want to.
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